


A Rose in Glass

by WorryinglyInnocent



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: A Monthly Rumbelling, F/M, Festive fic, Lady!Belle, Rumbelle - Freeform, Woobie!Rum, not super period accurate though, sort of historical AU - regency ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-11
Updated: 2019-12-11
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:58:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21757270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WorryinglyInnocent/pseuds/WorryinglyInnocent
Summary: Lady Belle French is supposed to choose a betrothed at her father’s Christmas ball, but she would far rather spend her time helping the shy gardener with the French family’s priceless bottled roses.Written for the @a-monthly-rumbelling moodboard prompt, availablehere.
Relationships: Belle/Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold
Comments: 22
Kudos: 66





	A Rose in Glass

“Who puts roses in jars anyway?”

Belle glared at the perfect red rose growing behind its glass as she carefully set it down in the tray of damp sponge. The rose jars had always fascinated her ever since she had been a child, and now they finally had a gardener who was willing to share with her the secrets of how they were tended. It was a delicate process, and even after learning about it, Belle was not entirely convinced that there was not some kind of horticultural magic involved. 

On the other side of the conservatory, Rumple just chuckled.

“It’s something that your family have been doing for generations, although I’d never seen a real life bottled rose myself before I came here.”

“Huh.” Belle finished tending to the rose jars and flung herself down on the sofa as Rumple continued to prune the orange trees. It had long since been too cold to work in the garden, but he could always be found in the potting shed or the greenhouses, or, on special occasions, in the conservatory if Belle’s father had asked him to make sure that it was presentable before the guests arrived.

There would certainly be a lot of them arriving tonight; it was Maurice French’s annual Christmas Eve ball, and as always, it was the talk of their admittedly small town. Even more so this year, since Belle would be expected to pick her match from all of the eligible young man who were attending. Belle couldn’t think of anything that she wanted to do less, especially at Christmas, which should have been a time of peace and goodwill to all.

She leaned over the arm of the sofa, looking at Rumple upside down. 

“I wish you were coming to the ball,” she muttered. “You’re the only person that I can talk to around here. I know all of the young men who are coming, and none of them have any decent conversation at all. I dread to think what it would be like to be married to one of them. I fear I might die of boredom.”

Rumple laughed. That wasn’t his real name, of course. He was actually Mr Gold, but he always looked so rumpled whenever Belle saw him that the nickname had stuck, and he had welcomed it. He’d only been at Marchlands Manor for a couple of years, taking up the gardener position after being injured in the war, but Belle was far closer to him than she’d ever been to anyone else of her acquaintance, except her mother, of course, and perhaps Astrid, her maid. 

She gave an emphatic sigh as the prospect of the evening’s ball returned to the front of her mind. A gardener was a perfectly respectable choice of husband. Perhaps not a conventional one for a lady, but Belle had never been one for convention.

“There you are, Miss Belle. I’ve been looking all over for you.”

Belle jerked her head up on hearing the housekeeper’s voice and immediately felt dizzy. Miss Blue came into the conservatory and sighed upon seeing Belle sprawled on the cushions. 

“Really, Miss Belle, your father will be wondering why he ever sent you to finishing school if this is how you behave. It’s time for you to start getting ready; the guests will be arriving before you know it. Gold, are you almost done in here? The footmen need to move the furniture and set the card tables out.”

“Almost done, Miss Blue. Miss Belle’s done the bottled roses, if you’d like to take them to wherever they need to go.”

Miss Blue picked up the tray of jars and made to bear them ceremoniously out of the room, but not before admonishing Belle once more. 

“Astrid is waiting for you upstairs. Your bath will be going cold.”

As soon as Miss Blue’s back was turned, Belle rolled her eyes, but nonetheless she heaved herself off the sofa and smoothed down her frock. 

“Right. Onwards into the valley of death.”

“You’ll be fine.” Rumple put down his secateurs and came over to her, taking her hand in both of his. His entire manner was a bundle of nerves. “I hope you don’t mind me taking a liberty like this, Miss Belle, but I wanted to wish you a Merry Christmas. I won’t see you again until after the day now.”

“Oh.” Belle hadn’t thought about it like that. She wouldn’t see him until Boxing Day, by which time she’d be engaged to one of the stuffy imbeciles who would be attending tonight. The thought of it made her want to cry, but it also emboldened her. She dated in and pressed her lips against Rumple’s cheek, lingering just a few moments too long. 

“Tradition,” she said, on seeing his surprised face. “Mistletoe, and all that.”

“Miss Belle, there’s no mistletoe in the house.” Rumple’s voice was soft, and a little awestruck. 

“Well, there was in my imagination.”

Belle left the room, and when she looked back, Rumple was still standing there, shocked into stillness and silence by her kiss.

Astrid was her normal bright and cheery self, going on about how excited Belle must be. She could always talk enough for two, so if she noticed that Belle was quieter than usual then she didn’t mention it and just filled in the gaps in conversation herself. Belle, for her part, just let it all wash over her. She was thinking about the roses again. She felt a little like a bottled rose herself. A fragile beauty, kept behind glass for her own protection, never allowed to be her natural self. Every need was attended to, as long as she grew in the direction that her family wanted her to. 

She felt sorry for the roses, but she felt sorrier for herself.

X

The party was really not very different to all of the other Christmas Eve balls that Belle had attended in all the time that her father had been hosting them. The same food was served, the same wine was flowing, and all the same guests had arrived. Today though, there was so much more tension in the air as she moved around through the reception rooms to make polite small talk, receiving compliments on her gown. It was a new one that Astrid had made especially for the occasion, in white and pale blue. It reflected the snow and frost outside, and whilst it sparkled prettily, it also reflected the chill in Belle’s veins. 

She wanted to be anywhere else. There was no warmth of Christmas spirit in her tonight; she was amazed that she couldn’t see her own breath curling in the air in front of her. Everyone she spoke with had such an air of anticipation around them, and she could not stand to be the main attraction of the event any longer. All of the eligible young men had gathered in one room, all of them eyeing up the competition and wondering which of them would be the lucky suitor to win Belle’s hand. She had taken visits from all of them over the course of the last few months, all with her father’s urging, and none of them held any attraction over any of the others. It was going to be a case of choosing the least of many evils. 

Well, none of them were evil, per se. They had all been perfect civil – and some, indeed, charming – young men, but she knew so little about all of them that she could not be sure. Men could be charming until they got what they wanted, and then their true colours would show. If Belle was going to choose a person to marry, then she wanted it to be someone whom she really knew. Someone who had her best interests at heart, rather than the desire to increase their own estate with her considerable dowry. 

She wanted someone who understood her, someone who made her laugh, someone who would not make her cry and would hold her if she ever did. 

Belle looked around the room again, taking in all of the young men with their ambitious and hungry eyes. She felt trapped, like a rose behind glass, wanting to feel the cool free air on its petals just as she needed to feel the air on her face. 

She couldn’t stay here, not for a minute more. She couldn’t make this decision, even though she knew how much it would break her father’s heart. She couldn’t bow to tradition, even though she knew that it would be the talk of the town for years to come down the line, how the youngest French girl did not announce her betrothed at the Christmas Eve ball. 

God, she wanted to be free. She craved it more than anything she had ever craved before. She couldn’t be a bottled rose any longer. She’d lived with it before. She’d bowed to all of her family’s traditions and all of society’s rules, no matter how stifling she might have found them to be, like glass pressing in on her from all sides – invisible, but most definitely tangible. 

She couldn’t do it anymore tonight. She couldn’t make a decision that would determine how the rest of her life was going to play out. 

Belle took a shuddering gasp of breath, blind panic overtaking her. She couldn’t breathe, there was no air in her chest at all. She had to get out. 

A few of the faces in the ballroom had turned on hearing her gasp, and a couple of the older ladies, there with their sons in the hope of achieving glory, came towards her, genuine concern on their features. Belle didn’t see any of them. Her eyes had alighted on the rose on the mantlepiece, pristine behind its glass. 

She felt like it was silently screaming for freedom, just as she was, and she grabbed the jar, throwing it down onto the hard floor and relishing the screeching crash as it splintered at her feet. 

Silence reigned supreme in the ballroom for a minute, until Belle’s father spoke. 

“Belle? Are you all right?”

Belle didn’t reply. She’d freed her rose. Now to free herself. She plucked up the bloom from the glass, not caring a wit when the thorns scratched her fingers, and she bolted from the room, weaving in and out of all the other guests until she reached the front door. The footmen didn’t know what was going on, but she was going through that door whether they opened it for her or not. 

Sensibly, they opened it, despite her father’s protests echoing behind her. In that moment, Belle didn’t care if she was pursued or not. All she wanted to do was to get as far away as possible. She raced out over snowy grass, running as hard and as fast as her legs could take her, weighed down by her heavy gown. The skirt was catching and tearing at the hidden twigs on the ground as she ran, and she felt terrible that all of Astrid’s careful handiwork was coming undone, but she would make it up to her maid in any way that she could once she had calmed down and come to her senses. She needed to breathe. She needed to get away before she could make any kind of sensible decision. 

Finally, she reached the orchard at the end of the garden. The trees were bare now and there would be no fruit till the spring at least, but in amongst the thick bows, interspersed with evergreens, she finally felt safe, and she slowed, leaning on the nearest trunk to catch her breath, drawing huge gulps of the freezing air into her lungs. 

It was only then that she realised how far she had come in the cold night air, with bare head and shoulders and only flimsy silk slippers on her feet, soaked through now with the cold snow. Her breath was truly curling in frosty tendrils now, but there was no way that she was going back inside to face everyone. Not now; perhaps not ever. 

She wondered what her father was saying to appease the guests, but quickly decided that she didn’t care. She was outside. She was free for now. There would be no betrothal tonight. 

“Miss Belle?” The voice was soft, the accent lilting and so wonderfully familiar. “Are you all right? I saw you run past the cottage and I came to see if something had happened.” 

As a worn woollen cloak was draped gently over her shoulders, Belle felt the weight of the day finally come down upon her, and she began to cry. 

“Oh, Miss Belle. It’s all right. I promise, everything’s going to be all right.” 

She collapsed against Rumple’s chest as his arms came around her, rubbing her back. “You’ll be all right,” he soothed. “Come on, let’s get you inside and warm.”

Belle shook her head. “I can’t go back in there, please don’t make me go back in there. I can’t face it, not tonight.”

“Of course not. You’ll be safe with me, Miss Belle.”

Rumple put an arm around her shoulders, guiding her in the direction of the gardener’s cottage. It was a tiny little lodge at the edge of the grounds, just two rooms and a privy, but it was Rumple’s home, and on the rare occasions that she had been in before, Belle had always marvelled at how cosy and welcoming he had managed to make the small space. 

There was a warm fire burning in the grate and he added another log to it as Belle sat down in the old easy chair, stretching out her feet towards the flames as Rumple tucked in several blankets around her.

“May I?” he asked, indicating her slippers. He was holding a pair of thick woollen socks. “They’re freshly laundered, no need to worry.”

Belle nodded. “Thank you.”

Gently, he took off the slippers to reveal her feet red raw with cold. He rubbed them briskly before putting the socks on her.

“I don’t think that your shoes can be salvaged, Miss, I’m afraid, but when you’re ready to leave, I’ll run up the house and get Astrid to bring me a pair of your walking boots.”

“Thank you, Rumple. You’re so good to me.” His kindness brought fresh floods of tears to her eyes, and he gave her a handkerchief. She couldn’t help but wonder if any of the young men now in disarray in the ballroom would have treated her with such tenderness. “I don’t know that I’ll ever be ready to leave, though.”

“You’re welcome here for as long as you wish, Miss Belle. Like I said, you’re safe here.”

Although his voice was soft, there was something steely in it, and Belle remembered that he had been a soldier back in the past, before he had come to the garden. She knew that he would not make her go back and face her father before she was ready, and if her father came looking for her prematurely, then Rumple would stand between them until Belle could face him herself. 

It was then that she realised that, in her heart, she had already made her choice. 

“May I ask what happened, Miss Belle?” Rumple asked as he brought a cup of tea over to her. “I know it’s not my place, but you were so distraught, and I was worried.”

“I just couldn’t stay there. I couldn’t make that decision and be the perfect bride that they all want me to be.” She remembered that she was still clutching the rose from the jar and she held it out to Rumple. It was wilted and battered now, looking much past its best – just as she was – but it was free. It was out in the world where it belonged. 

Rumple prised the flower from her hand and she hissed with pain; the thorns had bedded in deep. 

“It will flourish here,” he said, laying it on the side. “It’ll regain its strength and return to its former glory.”

As he tended to the cuts on her fingers, he looked up at her, and Belle knew that he wasn’t just talking about the rose. 

“Rumple…” 

“Sh. Get yourself warm first. Then we can talk about it.” He finished dressing her cuts and turned her hand over, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “You don’t want a crippled gardener.”

“I think I do.” She caught his hand as he went to move away and brought it to her lips, returning his kiss. “Thank you, Rumple. Thank you so much, for everything.” 

“Anything for you, Belle. You know that.”

It was the first time that he had called her just Belle, without the Miss. It felt right; like the boundaries of class and money that had stood between them before had been broken down here, in his domain. 

Although there was still so much more to say, Belle knew that this was only the beginning, and that true freedom was just around the corner. 


End file.
